Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CLAIR E
The snow outside is falling steadily, painting the world in a cold, quiet blanket of white. Inside, the glow of string lights around the living room and the faint crackle of the fireplace fill the apartment with warmth. It’s so familiar yet such a stark contrast to my childhood Christmases, and I’m not quite sure how to feel about it.
On one hand, it feels so much quieter than usual. My chest aches with the absence of the chaotic joy I once knew, the laughter of my siblings as we crowded into the kitchen, bickering over recipes and sampling dishes behind my mother’s back before they made it to the table. The scent of cinnamon and roasting meat would fill the air, and my father would lead us in prayer with his hands outstretched in blessing. Despite everything—the control, the restrictions—there had been moments of comfort in that simple togetherness .
But now, there’s a different sort of happiness to be felt. Even though I miss my family in a complicated, undoubtedly romanticized sort of way, it’s nice to simply exist without expectations. It’s quiet here with just Mark and me, but there is no underlying tension or need to put on an act. Here, I can be myself without worrying about whether or not my father will get angry, and I don’t have to play the role of the subservient daughter and soon-to-be housewife.
I’m starting to learn that there will always be tradeoffs between blissful ignorance and freedom, but I’d rather pay the price for liberation.
I curl up in the corner of Mark’s couch. A blanket is draped over my lap, and I fidget with the fringe on the edges as Mark flips through the stack of DVDs he pulled from a nearby shelf. The tension between us has been palpable these last few days, ever since that conversation where he admitted I was "desirable." The word had landed like a spark between us, igniting something I don’t fully understand but feel viscerally every time we’re in the same room.
"What about A Christmas Story ?" Mark asks, holding up a DVD case with a kid in glasses on the cover.
"I haven’t seen it."
He arches an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but moves on. "Okay. Home Alone ?"
I shake my head.
Mark stares at me. "Wait, hold on. You’ve never seen Home Alone ?"
"No." I bite my lip, feeling a little defensive under his incredulous gaze. "I told you—I didn’t grow up watching movies like that."
He sets the DVDs down and looks at me with a mixture of amusement and confusion. Maybe a little pity. "What did you watch, then?"
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Our access to movies was limited. We didn’t have normal TV channels or anything. Just an old VHS/DVD player and a stack of approved movies."
"Approved by who?" he asks.
"My father, and therefore the church." I look down at the blanket in my lap, fiddling with the fringe again to avoid his gaze. "They were mostly religious."
There’s a beat of silence. "So you’ve never seen a Christmas movie that wasn’t religious?"
"I don’t think so. Definitely not any of the ones you just listed," I admit.
"What about It’s a Wonderful Life ? That has a religious element. Sort of."
"Nope."
Mark shakes his head, muttering something under his breath. "Alright, we’re fixing this." He picks up a DVD with a black-and-white cover. "This one is a classic, and it has an angel, so it technically counts as religious… I think. We’re starting here."
"Okay." I still haven’t watched anything outside of our "approved" movies, so I’m not entirely sure what to expect. If my father didn’t have it in his collection, it means there’s something in it he wouldn’t approve of, especially since it’s a Christmas movie. But Mark says it has a religious aspect to it, so I’m interested to see where the divide is.
Mark heads toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Do you want a drink? Wine? Eggnog?"
"Umm, I’m not sure…"
"Oh, shit, I forgot you don’t drink," he says.
"It’s not that I don’t drink," I correct, feeling bold. "It’s just that I haven’t yet."
"Well, do you want some then?"
I pause for a moment, considering the offer. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m in a safe environment with someone who I trust not to take advantage of me. "Sure." I get up and follow him to the kitchen.
"I suppose you don’t have a preference," he says.
"Not really. Probably something sweet and not too strong, though."
He nods as he grabs a bottle of white wine and pours a small amount into a glass. "Try this."
I take a sip and am surprised by how much I like it. It’s sweet, bubbly, and light.
Mark takes my expression as all the confirmation he needs and fills the glass about halfway. "Be careful," he warns. "It tastes good but it’ll hit you harder than you expect if you drink it too fast."
"Okay."
He hands the glass back to me and his fingers brush mine. I try to ignore the jolt of electricity his touch sends through my body.
Mark pours his own drink then settles on the couch next to me, not too close but close enough that I can’t stop thinking about how, if either of us moved just a few inches, we’d be touching. What would it feel like to lean into him, to let him wrap his arms around me?
He picks up the remote and starts the movie, the black and white picture displaying the opening credits.
I take another tentative sip of the wine.
As the movie plays, I find myself drawn in immediately. It begins with angels speaking to each other amongst the stars, so I see where Mark says there may have been a religious element to it. It tells the story of a man whose life gradually gets worse through a series of unfortunate circumstances, but he manages to stay positive throughout. But when a massive mistake puts him in dire circumstances, he almost ends his own life before an angel intervenes.
Something about it resonates with me in a way I can’t quite articulate. While I’ve never considered taking my own life, I know what it feels like to wonder what the world would be like if I didn’t exist. Would anyone actually miss me, or would they just miss the role I filled in making their lives easier?
More than halfway through the movie, I realize I’ve finished my wine, and when Mark pauses the movie and offers to refill the glass, I accept. My head feels light, but it seems to alleviate the constant pull of worry in my mind.
Mark returns to the living room with a refilled glass for both me and himself, and he sits back down on the couch. I can’t help but wish he was closer.
"Why are you spending Christmas alone?" I ask, surprising myself with the question. It was in my mind, but I didn’t mean to say it aloud.
Mark’s expression shifts, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. "I don’t really have any family anymore."
I want to ask more, but something in his tone tells me not to push. "I’m sorry."
He shrugs, brushing it off. "Last year, and most years, I spent Christmas with Shane. But he and Dani decided to go somewhere tropical this year. Trying to make the final decision about their wedding venue, I think."
"I see." I’m not sure how else to respond. I don’t want to pry and ask about his family situation. Well, I do, but I won’t, in the same way he doesn’t pry about mine. "It’s peaceful here, though. Watching the snow and city lights from so high up but staying warm inside. Nobody to impress or appease."
Mark’s expression softens when his eyes meet mine. "Yeah. That part is nice." He resumes the movie, and I turn my attention back to the screen and watch the situation play out.
The movie makes me think in more ways than I expected it to. While it depicts angels, it’s not in the typical biblical sense, which is likely why my father wouldn’t show it to us. But I like the idea that there may be a guardian angel out there for me like Clarence—one who’s kind but has a sense of humor, who would intervene if I ever got to that point of desperation like George does as he considers jumping off the bridge. Even if I’m not sure what to believe now, it would be nice to think that there’s something looking out for me.
I sip my wine and ignore the feeling of Mark’s gaze on me, watching the screen as George struggles with his situation then makes his wish. This time, his words are ones I identify more with.
What would happen if I’d never been born? It’s not like I’ve made a significant contribution to society. I’ve had a lot of lonely nights in my car the past few weeks to ponder what life means to me now that I’m not a blindly devout follower of religion. At home, they were all adamant that life was solely about following God’s word, even if the things they did seemed to directly contradict it at some points.
But now that I don’t really believe in God—at least in the way they do—what meaning is there to ascribe to life?
Maybe this is all there is to it, though. I’m here with someone who cares about me, warm and comfortable and relatively happy. Everyone wants something to give their life meaning. I’ve lost the thing I was supposed to find meaning in, so now I have the freedom to find it wherever I choose. Maybe it is simply about these little moments of connection and joy. Would it really be so bad if that’s all there was to live for?
As the movie continues, my heart grows heavier as I follow along and learn the same lessons George does.
By the time the movie ends with the townspeople singing Auld Lang Syne, tears are streaming down my face and I’m sniffling in attempts to not sob. I don’t know why it hits me so hard, but it does. The sudden burst of hope, the joy of a community coming together in kindness and love. It’s something I’ve always craved, but I’ve never felt or seen it in this way.
As the movie ends, the room falls into silence. The snow outside has slowed, the flakes drifting lazily past the window. I lean back against the couch, not sure if the warmth inside me is from the wine, the fire, or Mark’s presence.
"Thank you," I say, breaking the silence.
"For what?"
"For this. All of it. For letting me stay. For showing me a different kind of Christmas." I look over at him. "It means a lot."
Mark’s gaze meets mine, and the rest of the world fades away. "You’re welcome." He gives me a soft smile.
In that moment, something shifts between us. The tension that’s been hanging over us for days doesn’t disappear entirely, but it feels less sharp and more… gentle. Affectionate, even.
I want to kiss him.
I want him to kiss me .
The thought hits me out of nowhere, a sudden desire that takes hold and refuses to let go.
But he doesn’t make a move, and neither do I. I can’t bring myself to take that step. At least, not yet.